


Four Lives Tyson Ritter Never Had and Never Missed (and one he did)

by xaritomene



Category: All American Rejects
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-03
Updated: 2010-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:11:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaritomene/pseuds/xaritomene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyson knew it was going to be a bad day when he woke up in a bed he didn't recognise next to a girl he didn't know with no idea where or even when he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Lives Tyson Ritter Never Had and Never Missed (and one he did)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with any of the people mentioned here, and none of the events are true. If you've got here by googling yourself or your famous friends, the back-button is your friend.

Tyson knew it was going to be a bad day when he woke up in a bed he didn't recognise next to a girl he didn't know with no idea where or even when he was.

"Hi," he said awkwardly, poking the girl, "Er, I know this sounds rude, but - who are you?"

She smiled up at him, and it was then that he noticed how tidy and clean the room was: white sheets on a big double bed, bottles on a pretty white dressing table, an antique-looking clothes press in one corner. Not exactly his idea of what a groupie's home would look like, though admittedly he hadn't been to many groupie's houses, and everything he knew about them came from daytime TV. Still, from what he could see he'd have said that this was a couple's room given the aftershave and watch on the bedside table nearest him, the suit jacket over the chair there... He hadn't slept with someone's girlfriend, had he? And where was her boyfriend right now?

It was possibly a mark of how crazy his life was that he seriously wondered whether he'd slept with the boyfriend as well.

All the same, it didn't look from the room as though this was the kind of couple to go in for that kind of thing.

"Ty," the girl - woman - smiled, "I wish you'd stop saying that to me now. It's cute, but not first thing in the-" her eyes flicked to the window -"wait, what time is it?!"

He glanced at the watch, "Er - nine thirty?" And how was he awake at this time, anyway? They were on tour, he tried not to wake too early on the bus; it just left more and more time to kill.

God, the bus. The rest of the guys were going to kill him.

"You have to be at work now, Ty!" She threw herself out of bed and tossed a pair of suit trousers at him, "I'll bring you clean ones at lunchtime, you haven't got time for a shower- come on, Tyson, get up!"

He eased out of bed. "What? Look, I think you've confused me with someone else," he began but she frowned at him.

"Not now, love." Although she was evidently flustered, her tone was still fond. "You get up, I'll go make your sandwich."

She was out the room seconds later, and Tyson noticed that she'd put a shirt and tie out for him to wear. He rifled in the trouser pockets and pulled out a leather wallet.

In it was a picture of the woman and tucked into one pocket was a tiny card - garish red, with 'good luck!' in flaking gold glitter on the front - which declared itself to be 'with love, from Laura".

Bemused and not seeing anything else to do, he climbed into the suit, tied his tie without bothering to do up the top button and headed downstairs. His - girlfriend? - was wrapping up a packet of sandwiches and the sun caught on the gold of her wedding ring. His wife?!

She smiled at him as he came in, looking a little harried. "C'mon, Ty, everyone's late sometimes. Don't look so down, they won't hold it against you. You can always say I'm not feeling well, or something." She redid his tie and kissed him fondly. "I'll see you tonight, darling."

He managed some sort of goodbye - he didn't know what - and left the house wondering whether this was some kind of elaborate joke. When he saw the posters for "The All-American Rejects: Back Again!" he was sure of it. It was a moment's work to find the bus in a town as small as Stillwater and he knocked on the door victoriously.  
The welling feeling of triumph dampened down a little when someone he didn't recognise at all - tall and built, brown eyes and a big pouty smile - opened the door.

"Can I help?" he asked and Tyson frowned.

"Nick Wheeler, where is he?" This could only be Nick's work - organising everyone in Stillwater had to have been an insider job.

"Who's asking for him?"

"That's between me and him," he snapped, "is he here or not?"

The guy looked him over for a long minute - and really, this was beyond a joke - and stepped back inside the bus, letting the door swing closed in Tyson's face. "Nick?" he heard bellowed through the bus, "Nicky? Another one of your boytoys is here!"

He gritted his teeth and waited until the door opened again. "Nicky, what the hell-" he started, then stared. This was not the Nicky who'd been in the other bunk when he'd gone to sleep: shaved hair, a little less pudge a little more muscle, a harder set to his mouth than Ty had ever seen, a hard set which only hardened further when he saw Ty there.

"Can I help?"

"What the hell?" he repeated, frowning, "What is going on here?"

"Look, Tyson, I'm sorry." Not much regret in that tone. "But if you don't like us being here-"

"'Don't like us being here'...Nicky, it's me! Tyson!" Had everyone got some weird amnesia but him? "Your best friend, your fucking frontman?!"

Nick sighed, expression not warming at all. "Tyson, that was a long time ago - get over it already."

And Ty really did falter at that, because they'd never done anything like this to each other before - never held up a prank this long or this seriously before - and Nick had never sounded like that when he was talking to Tyson. "What's happened here?" he asked, helplessly confused.

"I made a promise I couldn't keep," Nick snapped, and how wrong was that? Nicky didn't snap. "It was stupid, but hundreds of teenagers do it. You're the idiot who didn't realise that they don't always come true. I was in college, Tyson, what did you expect? For me to ditch all that because I - god, I don't know - missed you?"

"I - don't understand," he said, only half listening to the conversation, since he could hear far more in what Nick wasn't saying than what he was, and what Nicky was saying was that - they weren't friends anymore? Had Ty done something when Nick had gone on to form the Rejects without him?

Had he really been that petty?

"If you could have just accepted that I'd moved on, we could have been friends," Nick went on, "but you just went on and on, Tyson. I can't deal with that day in, day out."  
Apparently, yes, he had been. "Well then," he tried to be conciliatory, "I guess I'm sorry?" He had no idea what was going on here, but Nicky was his rock, had grounded him when nothing else made sense, and if he couldn't have the band, he needed Nick.

"Well then." Nick looked uncomfortable. "I guess - I mean, that's good. Look, why don't you come to the concert tonight? You might like it..."

"Come to a Rejects concert?" The idea held a certain amount of appeal, because he was all but certain that he wasn't going to be stuck here - twenty plus years of life couldn't be a figment of his imagination, after all, this must be some kind of really bad trip, anything but real life - and it would be good to see a Rejects concert from the other side of the stage. "Yeah, why not?"

"I mean, people don't always stay friends all their lives, do they?" It occurred to Tyson that maybe Nicky felt bad about the whole thing, and he couldn't let that happen, "It's no one's fault. We just wouldn't have - y'know. Managed out of Stillwater."

Now was not the moment to disagree so Tyson just shrugged. "I guess you'll never know," he said simply, and although Nick shifted uncomfortably, he didn't say anything.  
"I'll go and get you a ticket, shall I?" he asked awkwardly and disappeared back into the bus, reappearing a few seconds later with a ticket in one hand.

"So... it's just the Rejects, then? No other band touring with you?" Tyson asked, glancing down at the ticket.

"What other self-respecting band would come to Stillwater, Tyson?" Nick asked, and although he and Nick had said things like that to each other back in the real world, there had never been that note of dislike in their voices at the time. What had soured home for Nick so badly? Cowardly, he couldn't help but hope he didn't find out; he didn't want to find out that it had been him. "Anyway, people here are only interested in us because I'm from here. S'why we're sold out."

"Sweet," he said politely. God, he and Nick had never been 'polite' around each other. "I'll, er. I'll see you tonight, then?"

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe. Enjoy the show, I guess."

"What, so this isn't a backstage pass?" Ty joked absently and Nick's face - tense and unhappy - was all the answer he needed. "I'm sure the show will be great," he said, at a loss, then turned away. "Later, yeah?"

**

He thought about going to work but then realised he didn't know where 'work' was, and even if he had he probably wouldn't have the first clue about how to go about doing - whatever his job was. From the suit he worked in an office of some kind (and he pulled a face over that just on principle), and he could well do without that, even just for a day. So he took off the jacket and pulled off the tie before heading down to the creek.

Spending the day there was - strangely boring. Most importantly, he had no one to talk to as normal, but he also had nothing to fish with, nothing to read and no guitar to practice on. Even if he had had the guitar, he thought, looking down at his fingers, he'd have worked his fingers to bleeding if he'd tried to practice like he was used to; these hands had no guitar calluses on them. So he lay on the side of the creek, shirt open and comfortable again, shoes kicked off, and went to sleep.

**

He woke to the sensation of someone staring at him, and flailed upright until he saw the woman he'd woken up next to this morning - Lucy? Laura? She was sat against a tree, eyes soft as she looked at him.

"I knew you'd be down here," she said warmly, "when the school rang to say you hadn't turned up. If you'd said this band coming was going to be tearing you up like this, the principal wouldn't have minded."

So he was a teacher? That was a new one. He'd never exactly considered himself the teaching kind. "It's my band," he muttered, still half-asleep, sun-warm and sufficiently out-of-it to voice exactly what was in his head. "Nicky and me are in it together."

"I know, baby," she agreed sadly, "and if life was fair you still would be. But sometimes these things just - don't work out. If you needed the day off, Mr. Page would have been fine with that. Must be tough seeing him again." God, she was so understanding, he thought, starting to wake up, and really, sometimes he just wanted a good, all-out row. He couldn't ever imagine having that with her, or even any decent conversations; so why had he apparently married her? "I mean," she continued, oblivious, "it's not easy for me, and we only went out for a little while. You two were inseparable for so long."

Tyson shot upright, staring at her in a way he was fairly certain made him look deranged. "Don't say it," he begged her, "please don't say it." He'd stolen Nicky's girlfriend?

She gave him a faint look of surprise, but nodded slowly, "Alright. But you shouldn't have to feel bad about this, baby - I mean, this is your home, not his now."

"I'm going to their concert tonight," he said heavily. "Maybe we can patch things up there."

"You want to?" she asked, sounding frankly sceptical. "You two haven't been - I mean, you've been at each other's throats for so long..."

"Well past when we should have stopped, then," he decided, and she smiled at him.

"So grown up," she smiled, and he shuddered inwardly - it was all a bit parental. She was apparently his wife, not his mother. "God, and it feels like we were only graduating last week."

"Mm," he agreed absently. "Look - er - dear, I'mna head back home. Have a shower, get my head in the right place, y'know. Maybe sleep a bit more."

"We could..." She raised her eyebrows. "I mean, since you have all this free time now...?"

There was no right answer to that. "Later, love," he tried, "I just... can't." More than she would ever know, he hoped.

Disappointment, but not much hurt there. "Sure," she nodded placidly, and he wondered again why he'd married her.

He remembered to kiss her cheek as he gathered his shoes and made to leave the creek, but his intent was stymied when she stood up with him, took his jacket in one hand and his now-free hand in the other. "Anything special you'd like for lunch?" she asked sweetly, and he swallowed. Domesticity was a terrifying prospect.

**

By sleeping a lot and feigning a hurt he didn't feel so he wouldn't have to talk about things, Tyson somehow got through the rest of the day before the concert, which was being held in a marquee on the outskirts of town, at seven. Presumably the early hour was in deference to country timing or some such bullshit, but since they were only scheduled to play here for a couple of hours and were only stopping for one night, Tyson couldn't help wondering whether the early hour was Nick's attempt to get out as quickly as he could. It wasn't as though Stillwater seemed to hold many happy memories for him.

As for himself, he just hoped he got off this trip soon; this world was horrible.

It was very odd to go into the concert, lurking somewhere towards the middle of the crowd - near the stage, but not near enough to be picked out by the band. Being treated like a fan by a member of his own band would just be... weird. But it was also nice to see the hype of the fans from here, rather than from the wings. And if they were all talking about this "Mitchell" guy - well, someone had to be the frontman, right? And this was only until he came off his trip. The fact that normally they'd be talking about him like this was ridiculously good for his ego; probably too good, but Tyson was sure that there was no such thing as too much of a good thing.

He watched the crowd go wild as the dark-haired muscle-man appeared on stage, and tried without much success to stop himself criticising everything about the man, even if he was only doing it in the privacy of his own head. Too tall, too bulky, too in-your-face, he thought, and ignored the part of his mind calling him a hypocrite. Anyway, there was no doubt that he definitely looked better in skinny jeans than the Hulk on stage.

"Hallo, Stillwater! We're the All-American Rejects; we love all of you!" Tyson tuned him out - no point listening to a speech he'd made hundreds of times himself - and glanced around the crowd, who were cheerfully going mad, cheering and waving things... it was nice to be in the middle of it rather than watching it from the stage.

He peered over the heads of the crowd - being this tall had its advantages - at the drummer and the guitarist the other side of the stage to Nicky, holding his favourite guitar. It'd be good to see Mikey and-

But it wasn't just Tyson who wasn't in All-American Rejects.

Mike and Chris weren't either. They weren't there. The strangers at the drum kit and on the other side of the stage hit something Tyson hadn't realised was vulnerable, and he stumbled as the crowd began to move as the first notes of the song played out - a song he had never heard in his life and had certainly never sung. Muscle-man's voice was smooth in a way Tyson's never would be, making the songs sound gentler than they were, a little more seductive. The style of the songs, he realised numbly, had changed to fit that, and they were just... different. A little less quirky, a little slower and more sensual. It was a subtle change to the style of the band, but after working over his songs, the ones the band had sung, practicing them and then singing them in concerts and on records, Tyson was more than sensitive to it.

For a few moments, he stared almost blindly at the stage before turning and pushing his way out of the tent, ignoring all the protests and gulping in a huge breath of air. Turning without looking, just wanting to get away, he went straight over one of the ropes anchoring the tent to the grass, windmilling for a moment before he managed to get his hands out in front of him, braced for impact, and then winced heavily as the jolt trembled up his arms, and the tarmac bit into his palms.

Tarmac?

A hand on his elbow helped him up, and he stared around blankly. What the hell? He'd fallen over in a field in Oklahoma a second ago, and now he was getting up in a city somewhere?

Nick stared at him, one eyebrow inching upwards. "Ty? You OK there?"

Seeing Nicky looking at him without that shadow of hostility on his face was such a relief - he'd only spoken to his friend for a few minutes Back There, but he wasn't sure he'd ever forget that - that it was all he could do not to hug him then and there. Tyson's grasp on the concept of 'personal space' was a little weaker than most people's, but hugging best friends for no apparent reason in the middle of the street probably came under the auspices of 'not cool'.

"Yeah," he nodded, trying to look calm and collected, even though he had no idea where he was or what he was doing there. "Yeah, I'm just- yeah, I'm fine."

He patted Nick's shoulder carefully, trying not to get any grit or blood on Nick's shirt; his 'Radio Shack' uniform shirt. What? Without quite realising it, he felt the calluses on the fingers of his left hand, a reassuring reminder that whoever he was now and wherever he was, he was still playing bass. That at least was something solid in a world he didn't understand anymore.

"You just up and tripped over your own feet." Nick said, oblivious to Tyson's little existential crisis. "You didn't pour vodka on the cereal again, did you?"

"When did I last do that?" he asked, tuning back in, abruptly interested. That sounded like him - and that should tell him something about himself.

"Yesterday." Nick's voice was dry. "Gloating about not having a shift when we're barely scraping rent money. Smooth, Ty." But his hand was still warm at Tyson's elbow, and that meant more than anything he could say: "You'll have to wash that off at work, we'll be late if we go back up now."

"Walk me to work?" he asked quickly. God only knew he didn't want to miss a shift if they really didn't have enough rent money.

The eyebrow inched up a little higher. "It's on the way to mine, of course I will. You didn't hit your head or anything, did you?"

He made to feel the back of Tyson's head, and Tyson batted his friend's hands away before wincing as it pulled the torn, bloodied skin on the heel of his palms. "Shut up," he said sweetly, and Nick grinned, letting Ty fall into step with him. His green and black uniform shirt told him, looking down, that he'd sold his soul to the Coffee Monster, Starbucks, and he sighed. A shift there was bound to stifle creativity. "So why are we're doing this?" he asked before he could think better of it.

Nick's sigh strengthened into a groan towards the end. "Because we're fucking awesome, dude, and we're going to get a record out if it kills us; but until we do, we've got to pay the rent somehow."

"Working shifts at Starbucks and Radio Shack will kill us faster than trying to get a record out-" Tyson started, but Nicky shook his head.

"Please, Ty, not this morning. We have this argument every day, give me a break for once, alright?"

And it wasn't like Tyson could ever ignore that tone of voice, so he shut up. "Sure."

The little exchange told him something, though: they were still here because they'd never got a record out, no one had ever heard of them. Somehow - and it made Tyson felt strangely small and unpleasant to admit this - that was easier to deal with than Nick making it big and having left Tyson behind. Tyson could deal with not having the band if he had Nicky. Taking them both away left him feeling horribly vulnerable, like taking crutches away from a man with his leg in plaster.

"We'll make it, OK?" Nicky promised, a faint trace of something in his voice that Tyson couldn't quite place - something horribly out of place in his calm, laid-back friend's demeanour. "We will. It's just a question of time."

Another carefully bloodless pat and Tyson nodded. "Of course we will," he agreed, and wished he could reassure Nick properly; but he knew so little about this life and situation, he was almost certain he didn't have the words.

They walked in silence down the grotty streets of their chosen area of New York - evidently they weren't sleeping on their producer's floor anymore; had he given up on them? - and it was only when Nick gestured to the Starbucks nearest them and said, "Well?" that Tyson realised that he was officially at work.

Before he could listen to the voice of reason (it sounded like Nick anyway), he grabbed his friend in a hug and squeezed. Nothing was quite like hugging Nicky, so Ty drew it out longer than he maybe should have done, but Nick didn't seem to mind, patting his back.

When they drew back, Nick grinned. "You want me to kiss your hands better or something?"

He managed an answering grin. Everything was different and weird - honestly, what was he doing, jumping dimensions here or something? All a little too sci-fi for him. Still, even though he had no idea what was happening, at least this Nick was the same as he remembered. "Bite me, Nicky."

"Never. We're depending on that pretty face of yours to bring in the real money," Nicky joked, and Tyson contorted it into a truly horrible expression by way of response. "Go away, before you're late."

It turned out that Tyson had appeared in the middle of the morning rush hour, and there was barely time to wash the grit out of his hands and bandage them to make sure that nothing untoward got in the coffee before he was being asked to work the till - it was too dangerous to ask him to make coffee with damaged hands when there was such a rush on, his manager explained with a harried look. Tyson didn't complain. He could deal with cash registers, but he couldn't deal with making coffee, certainly not whilst his hands felt like they were on fire. And if this was a dream or a trip or whatever, why were his hands hurting?

The morning rush was going well, he was told, though to Tyson it felt like the worst kind of meet-and-greet in the world - he would never complain about boring parties and dinners with producers again. They were boring, but at least most of the people there were relatively polite. This lot bellowed their orders at him and got angry if it took too long; the queue stretched out the door, and people were shifting restlessly. By the time they got to the front of the cue, Tyson was lucky to get a 'please' out of most of them, let alone a smile.

The worst, most boring, repetitive bits of what he was still clinging to as his 'real life' were better than this, he thought fervently, taking yet another order for a grande americano to go, scrawling initials on the cup in the same way he'd seen the baristas do it when he was buying his own cups of coffee. He just hoped he was scrawling the right initials.

The mad rush had been going for maybe half an hour when disaster struck. A man barged through the crowd, heading for the counter, a tall paper cup clasped in one hand, ignoring the protests of the rest of the queue. "What is this shit?" he demanded, red faced and white-knuckled where he gripped the handle of his briefcase. "I asked for a latte, not this - watered down crap!"

Tyson looked carefully at the cup and checked the initials he'd scribbled on it, which were for yet another americano. Although he wanted to shout back at the guy - because dammit, who was he to shout at him? - he didn't. If this was real, he didn't want to see Nicky's face when he had to tell him he'd lost his job. He had no idea what was real and what wasn't at this stage; best not to risk it.

"Um, sir," That was hard to get out, "Is it possible you could have picked up the wrong order?"

"They said 'latte', I picked it up," The man snarled, "I'm going to be late now, is it really so hard for you idiots to make the right cups of coffee?" He slammed the full cup down on the counter, and Tyson could only watch as the lid snapped off and scalding liquid flew everywhere - all over Tyson himself, over his hands and shirt, and he yelped as it burnt into his skin. God, that hurt.

His eyes were watering, and he shut them tightly, a futile effort to hold the pain at bay. It took an effort of willpower to open them and look down at his now-scalded hands. The sensitive skin of his stomach stung painfully, and he knew that would be red and sore too in a few moments.

He was so caught up in the pain of the moment that he didn't realise the sounds of the coffee shop had faded around him, and when he looked up, Nick was staring back at him across the table of a diner somewhere, already reaching for tissues to help mop up the spill. He glanced down at the table, and saw the thick, white china mug he'd tipped over, and his ruined T-shirt.

"Did you have to pick today to be clumsy, Ty?" Nick asked, glancing at his reddened hands. "You'd, er - you'd better go and run your hands under cold water. I'll mop up here. You want another cup?"

"Er..." he glanced round at the diner - Janie's, he remembered vaguely, one he'd come to once or twice with friends before he'd graduated and left with Nicky, "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be good."

"You been hitting the hard stuff already?" Nick asked, glancing up from his mopping, "Tell me later - fuck off and wash your hands."

In the bathroom, he ran his scalded hands under the hot tap in a daze before realising his mistake as the hot water bit even further into his already damaged hands. "What is happening here?" he asked his reflection in an undertone. He could see why Nick might think he'd been drinking - his eyes were a little wild, over bright, pupils wider than normal from - what, lack of sleep? Sheer confusion? "What is happening?" he repeated helplessly to himself, and was so preoccupied with trying to work out what was going on that he didn't even hear Nicky coming into the bathroom.

"Ty, you OK?"

"Huh? Oh! Yeah. Um, yes. Yes, I'm fine."

"Looked nasty," he glanced at Tyson's hands, "I guess it's just as well you gave up bass, dude."

"I gave up-" for a moment, he shook his head, then nodded quickly as he realised Nicky was giving him an odd look, "Yeah, of course. How long ago was that, now?"  
Nick's odd look didn't disappear. "Last year sometime. Shame. I mean," he handed him a paper towel, "No, Ty, dab it, it'll hurt like a-"

"Ow! Fuck!"

"-bitch if you rub it," He finished with a sigh. "Idiot. I know we never made it, but we could have jammed together and stuff. I don't get why you only wanted to play to get famous."

The words sounded well-worn, no fire behind them at all, so this was evidently an old argument. Unwilling to be working to a script he hadn't read, Tyson shrugged. "Let's not do this again," he said firmly.

"You could have taught it with me, we could have set up a band for kids," Nick persisted, "Instead of selling your soul like you do."

In a different situation, a situation he was more certain of, Tyson would have assumed that Nick was talking about modelling - but they weren't in New York now, they were still in Stillwater, in Oklahoma. Chances were he wasn't doing much modelling here. Frantically, he scrambled for something to say which wouldn't give away his ignorance. "I, er. It's not so bad," he settled on, finally.

Nick snorted, already heading for the door. Tyson trailed after him, "Fine end for all those dreams, buried under used cars."

Tyson laughed at that, shocked more than amused. He was selling used cars? Now he knew that someone, somewhere in the universe, was having an enormous joke at his expense.

Nick returned his grin reluctantly, sliding back into their booth with a sigh. "I know, I know. Drink your coffee - don't spill it - and we'll head down to the creek."

He shook his head - was he going to spend all his time in Stillwater at the damned creek? - but nodded when Nick looked at him with that funny expression again. "Ty, are you feeling OK?" The glimmer of a smile, "Having another one o your funny spells? We can go home if you'd-"

"No, no - it's OK," he said, though he had considered. At least going home would mean he had at least a little idea of where the hell 'home' was. "It'll be - er - nice to get some fresh air."

Nick shrugged, "Yeah, I guess," he shifted his shoulders, rolling them loose. "So, any big plans for tonight?"

"Tonight?" he racked his brains, but since he didn't even know the date he couldn't think of anything he was supposed to be doing, "None that I can think of," he hedged.

Nick shrugged, "Staying in with a pizza and some beer then?"

Sounded good to him. The last time he'd tried to go out in Stillwater, he hadn't been legal, and he couldn't imagine things had got anymore exciting since then. "Yeah, something like that," he agreed, then added quickly, "Fancy joining me?"

The so-familiar eyebrow went up, "No, I was planning to stay in my room all night while you're in the lounge. Wouldn't want to risk having to talk to you or anything."

So they were living together. That was good; at least they were friends in this particular - place. Tyson had just given up trying to figure this through. It was never going to make sense, he knew. And he was tired of trying to. He forced a grin, "Just checking you weren't sick of me by now."

"I'm plenty sick of you," Nick told him cheerfully, "But I'm too nice, what would you do with me?"

'Become a teacher' was on the tip of his tongue, but apparently this version of him wasn't as off-the-wall as he was, so Nick might not appreciate something so random. Especially not if Nick was a teacher. Rather than flounder for an answer again, he drained the last of his new coffee, burning his tongue in the process, and looked up. "Let's go."

They split the bill, despite Nick saying it was 'his turn'. That meant nothing to Tyson, so he ignored it completely and insisted on paying for the eggs he didn't remember eating. The waitresses all knew them; even the lady they paid seemed surprised that they were splitting the cost of the unremembered meal, going so far as to ask whether 'everything was alright'.

Nick 's worried look was back, and it was strangely reassuring that this Nick, despite how different things were for them, knew and worried when things were off with him. And really, sharing a flat (a house?) with Nick, fishing trips on – whatever day this was, probably a weekend – staying in and watching movies together... he could get behind all that. He liked his life as it was, adored their band and was proud of their songs, but he didn't need it, he was starting to realise. This one wasn't so bad - none of the hurt of being left behind while Nicky made it big, none of the desperation of being stuck in New York together. This was OK.

He grinned back at Nick out on the street, and followed him to a battered old Ford, dusty outside and grimy inside, and his grin grew as Nick grimaced with the screech of the door opening.

"You'd think," he said pointedly, "That you could at least find us a decent car. Since you, y'know, sell the damn things."

"Then you'd have nothing to complain about, baby," he said cheerfully.

"I could probably find something to keep my quota up," Nick said dryly, firing up the engine. "You getting in or not?"

The drive down to the creek was short and quiet, and they parked it haphazardly in the empty space designated for anyone who happened to have driven down. Tyson himself was wondering why they'd bothered driving when Nick hauled the rods out the back, and handed a box and a rod to him. "C'mon, prove you're not just a pretty face," he grinned, and headed off down the path to the creek itself.

"Most people would say I'm not even that."

"Don't fish for compliments, Ty, it doesn't suit you."

"Yessir. Hey, did we get rid of my bass?" he hoped the question wasn't too stupid. He had the remains of guitar calluses on his fingers, and it would be good to actually play again. "We could maybe play some tonight, see if I remember anything."

Nick's face closed off just a little. "Might be around somewhere, I don't know," he busied himself locking the car. "Let's see how you feel this evening."

"I'm sure I'll be-" Glancing back at Nick proved to be his undoing; he tripped over the thin half of his fishing rod, and had a split moment of calm, thinking, this is going to hurt, glancing down at his burnt hands (weirdly free of scabbed skin), before everything up-ended and he went down hard on his knees. He would have sworn he heard something crack, but it was hidden in Nick's shocked shout,

"Ty!"

But when he looked up again, it was dark, there was loud music coming from somewhere and his hands were clutching a paper cup of something which smelt like whiskey. Two pairs of hands hauled him upright and he swayed for a moment. God, his knee was killing him; his head spun at yet another change in location, and his vision blurred horribly. Where the hell was he now? Despite having been to a ridiculous number of parties since the band started making it big, this situation was worryingly unfamiliar.

"Fuck, Ty," And that voice was familiar, thank god; Mike was grinning as usual, and that at least made him feel a little better, "Maybe you should stop..."

"Maybe he shouldn't have started," Chris snarked from the other side, and Tyson grabbed both of them in what was supposed to be a hug, but which became a horrible, messy grip, all limbs and heads and bone.

Tyson wasn't sure he cared; it grounded him. "You're here," he said, knowing his delight sounded odd and not caring in the slightest. He didn't so much as protest when Chris took the paper cup from his hand; he wasn't drunk and however tempting it was at the moment, it was more tempting to pretend to be drunk and be able to be so tactile.

"Where did you think we were?" Chris asked, sounding amused.

"Is Nicky anywhere around?" he asked, watching out the corner of one eye as Chris poured the contents of the cup onto the ground.

"'Nicky'?" Mike asked, looping an arm round Tyson's waist for support. "...Nick Wheeler? What the fuck?"

Tyson frowned, "Yeah, Nicky, Nick Wheeler. Where's he?"

"How much have you had?" Chris asked rather brusquely, "You two haven't spoken for years."

A cold chill settled over the glow of having the rest of his band there. "What?"

"Seriously, Ty, are you feeling OK? You never talk about Wheeler." Mike was frowning; not a look which suited him.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know, some flat back in Stillwater somewhere," Chris's voice was even brusquer than before, "Why are you-"

"And where are we?" he asked. They thought he was drunk, they wouldn't think it was too odd that he was asking that.

"Edmond," There was a definite worried note in Mike's voice. "Chris, I think we'd better get him-"

"Why isn't he here?" Tyson persisted.

"He opted out of all this, that's nothing to do with us," Chris's frown was all but audible in his words, "Ty, have you been taking anything other than whiskey?"

"I'm not even freaking drunk," Tyson snapped, wrenching his arms out of Mike's grasp. Suddenly, feigning drunkenness wasn't looking as clever as it had a moment ago. "Why isn't Nicky-"

"Ty, if you were sober, you wouldn't be asking," Chris said firmly, "We've been fielding this one for years - artistic diffe-"

"When people say 'artistic differences', what they mean is 'huge fucking row'." Tyson pointed out. "I gotta talk to him."

Mike and Chris exchanged a glance which would have been above Tyson's head had he not been a good several inches taller than them. "If you really want to patch things up between you," Mike said carefully, "At least wait till you're sober, OK, dude? Because I've never known anyone accept an olive branch that stinks of whiskey."

"I'm not drunk," he insisted, but Chris just shook his head.

"Dude, you've been drinking since seven, if you're not wasted there's something wrong with you."

"Seriously, I'm not fucking drunk," he repeated fiercely, "I just-" And OK, 'I'm just hopping between dimensions' would have sounded like he was tripping on something strong, even to him, and he was the one doing it. "I just gotta talk to Nicky."

Another exchanged glance, "You're gonna go on and on about this, aren't you?"

And he really had to talk to Nicky, had to get all of them together again in one space, somehow. "Yeah, I am."

"C'mon, then."

The drive to Stillwater seemed to take much longer than it already was, and Tyson watched the streetlamps go past in silence. Chris and Mikey were talking quietly together without looking at him, and if there was a fourth member of their band anywhere - replacing Nicky - they hadn't involved him. For that, at least, Tyson was grateful; he wasn't sure how well he would have taken it. Desperation, it turned out, was an ugly emotion on him.

He didn't like how helpless he was feeling at the moment, and the way he couldn't control anything - couldn't make anything better - was fast turning helplessness into despair. He had to see Nicky.

In Stillwater, they turned down the street before the one where Nicky's parents shop was, and stopped outside a squat building of flats. "Up there," Chris jerked his head towards it. "You be OK getting up there?"

"Fifth floor, right?" Tyson tried at random.

Mike's expression was even more worried than before. "God, I don't know, Ty. We had to check the phone book to get the fucking building. You sure you'll be OK?"

"I'll be fine, guys. Seriously." He was already half out the car as he replied, and didn't look back as he headed up through the building, checking each door as he went. There wasn't a lift, and he couldn't have taken it even if there had been, but his knee was throbbing painfully; evidently his fall had really done some damage. The climb up through the building took far longer than he had expected.

Nick's flat was on the sixth floor, and Tyson paused outside the door – which had Nicky's name scrawled on a card and taped to the door - trying to get his breath under control. Resolutely, he shoved the pain back and steadied himself before finally knocking sharply, twice, and standing back. Through the thin ply board of the door, he could hear someone stumbling and swearing their way towards him, and when it opened, Nicky was in sweats, a T-shirt dragged hastily on, eyes bleary with sleep.

They cleared when he saw Tyson standing there.

"What do you want?" he asked, low and defensive. "It's two in the fucking morning, you couldn't wait before coming round here to-"

"I wanted to apologise," he said quickly, before Nicky could say anything else. "I wanted to say I'm-"

Nick's way of shutting him up was far more final than Tyson's; he didn't even have the time to finish his sentence before Nick punched him, a square hit right across the eye. Tyson flailed backwards for a moment, eyes closing automatically, and when he opened them, he saw the roof above his bunk.

For a moment, he lay there, breath coming in great gasps as he tried to get over the horrible memories of that dream, and then he realised that his eye was still hurting.

Very slowly, he opened his eyes again and found Nicky staring down at him, propped up on one elbow, eyes apologetic.

"Sorry, baby," he said, contrite, "Didn't mean to hit you like that. Bad dream."

Still off-balance, Tyson gave the reaction he would have done if everything was normal, "What am I, a battered wife?" he muttered, and Nick laughed, then leant forwards and kissed the eye that he'd apparently hit by flailing around in his sleep.

"You're too scary to batter," he joked back, and Tyson was so grateful for the closeness after too many glimpses at lives where things were weird between them, he didn't even think to question the kiss, pulling Nick close instead and hugging him. He was at least three or four inches taller than Nick, but he curled up round him in the bunk and squeezed.

Nick laughed, and patted his shoulder, "Bad dream too, huh?"

And I'm still in it, "Yeah," he mumbled into Nick's shoulder, "Really bad."

"Baby," Nick taunted gently. "You'll be fine. Get over it."

"Fuck you, Wheeler," He muttered, and was shocked when Nick's hand slid slowly down his back.

"Actually, I was kind of hoping I could fuck you," Nick said with a grin, and Tyson jerked upright, slamming his head into the top of the bunk with a painful thump.

He ignored it. "You what?"

Nick gave him the confused look which was getting uncomfortably familiar, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" he said quickly, "I. Nothing." He swallowed hard, "I don't know, I'm just-" Well, at least now he knew what was weird about this universe; unless- "Won't Mike and Chris mind?"

The confused look held, "They never have before...? Just how hard did I hit you, huh?" He sat up as well and took Tyson's face in his hands, turning it towards him and examining it in the dim light. "You've got a black eye coming," he said ruefully, "But nothing worse than you've had before. What's wrong with you?"

"Wait till I tell the fans you've been beating me," he returned, once again distracted into reacting normally and ignoring the last question for the moment. He didn't think the answer could be given in a simple answer.

"They'll be too busy swooning over how dangerous you look to hate on me," Nicky shrugged. His hands had dropped from Tyson's face, but one now rested at his hip.

Another thing to be ignored for the moment – it wasn't like he was a stranger to inappropriate touching between bandmates – he raised an eyebrow. "'Swooning'?"

"Shut up," Nicky told him comfortably, "Girls scream and cry when they meet you – what would you call that?"

"Lack of taste?" he suggested dryly, with uncharacteristic modesty.

But it made Nicky laugh, swinging himself out of the bunk. "Fisher," he derided, "Don't tell me you don't think you're the hottest piece of ass this side of Alaska."

"You make me sound so vain," Tyson complained, only belatedly realising that he was naked when he tried to follow Nick out of the bunk.

Nick's grin grew, "Well, baby, I like the view, but I don't think either Mike or Chris would be wild about it." His voice was at a normal level for the first time in the conversation, and a grunt of assent came from one of the other bunks while Christ actually roused himself enough to say, "If Ritter's naked again...!"

Nick laughed, and Tyson blinked then flinched as a T-shirt hit him in the face. "Anyone else want coffee?"

Assent came from both Mike and Chris, but Tyson was still too taken aback by this whole – thing – to answer. Luckily, Nick had taken his silence for assent and there was a cup of coffee waiting for him when he stumbled out into the front lounge, knee thankfully painless.

Nick greeted him with a surprising, thorough kiss, and Mike groaned as he entered the lounge, still in his pyjamas. "My eyes!" he moaned, and Nicky grinned, breaking off the kiss to retort,

"You're just jealous."

"Of you or Ty?" Mike shot back, whatever traces of antagonism had been on his face disappearing into a look of unashamed bliss as he sipped his coffee.

"Oh, Nick, definitely," Tyson started, but Nick talked over him easily.

"Both of us. You don't have sex on tap."

"See, that would be too much information if I didn't have to listen to you two having all that sex from my bunk," Mike's habitual grin was firmly in place, so Tyson wasn't worried – not that he would have been in the first place. If any of them ever did end up in a relationship with each other – though it wasn't that likely that they would – no one else was going to freak out about it. There wasn't room between them for that.

"-Tyson?"

He shook himself back to the present, then realised that Nicky's hand was resting just above his ass. That shot his concentration back to hell, and it took him a couple of seconds to realise that he was still being talked to. "What?"

"Back from your sex fantasies, I see," Chris said, now sat next to Mikey, who elbowed him.

"I said, how d'you get the black eye?"

"Nicky's been beating me," he said, trying to sound casual and not like Nicky's hand was throwing him horribly off-balance. From the squeak in his voice, he wasn't sure he'd managed it. He cleared his throat, "I was hoping you two could save me."

"And risk the wrath of Wheeler?" Mike grinned, "Never."

"That's right," Nick nodded, "Fear me."

"I'd fear you a lot more if you weren't domesticated enough to make us all coffee in the morning," Chris pointed out.

"I spit in it first," Nick said cheerfully.

"Then you should fear me," Chris told him, unperturbed, sipping regardless.

Ty stood in the middle of the lounge, knowing he looked like a prat but unable to get himself to move. This whole situation was so – normal, but it was like everything had been skewed a little to one side or the other, leaving it all familiar but somehow off.

"Ty? You drinking your coffee, or can I have it?"

Not really listening, he shrugged. "Whatever." Then he could feel their eyes on him, staring at him, and realised how 'off' that answer had been. He slumped his shoulders, quickly and dramatically, doing his best theatrical impression of cowed terror – not all that convincing, he fully admitted, "But I'm frightened of what Nick would do to me if I didn't drink the coffee he made for me."

Nick grinned, and Tyson picked the mug up – rather gingerly, since he wasn't having the best of luck with coffee at the moment – just as Nick said, without so much as glancing at them, "You wouldn't like Ty's anyway. I dosed it with Rohypnol."

That startled a laugh out of Tyson, and he relaxed a little. This world, at least, he could deal with. They were all friends, still in the band, and if he was screwing Nicky, it was a small price to pay for this much solid familiarity; after the previous couple of universes, this one was down as a keeper. So instead of freaking out, he played along. "You see what I have to put up with?" he demanded, trying his best puppy eyes.

"I wouldn't have had to if you'd just put out this morning. Now I'm desperate."

"Sex fiend," Tyson grinned and drained his mug.

"I give him fifteen minutes before he's begging for it," Nick said calmly.

Chris huffed a laugh. "Like he needs date-rape to do that." He gave Tyson a wicked grin, and Tyson upped his wide-eyed look even further before launching himself at him.

"Don't you love me anymore?" he asked, arms locked around Chris' shoulders, and yes, this was all beautifully familiar.

Chris shoved him off. "Get off me!"

"Nicky, Chris doesn't love me anymore."

"I love you plenty," Chris explained mock-patiently, "But you're not the only one who's frightened of your boyfriend." He turned a page in his magazine and proceeded to ignore them.

Tyson flopped down on the sofa next to Nick, shifting restlessly until he found a comfortable position, which happened to be sprawled along it with his head in Nick's lap. The only difference in this situation was that Nick's fingers ended up teasing through his hair, rather than shoving him off. He fell asleep content to believe that, even if this whole thing was totally fucked up, at least this world was livable – better than the others he'd been dropped in by a long shot. And if he couldn't get back to what he was still convinced was reality, at least here they were all together and happy.

When he woke up – having only fallen asleep accidentally – he found that Mike and Chris had gone into the back room to play some oldie video game of Mike's. Tyson had never bothered to learn the names because he'd known that he could never beat Mikey at them, and it didn't look like he was going to get much of a chance to learn them now. He was too sleepy and comfortable to bother moving.

Nick was still engrossed in his book, so Tyson took a moment to just look at him. This wasn't exactly Nick's best angle, but from here, Ty could see the slightly softened angle of his jaw, the pale line of his throat, slightly parted lips, eyebrows slightly lowered as he read.

It would be so easy to fall in love with him, Tyson thought sleepily, and wondered why he never had before.

"When you're done?" Nick smiled down at him, and Tyson registered the movement of his lips before he really heard the words.

"I was just thinking about how lovable you are."

"Even though I drug your coffee?" Nick asked, marking his place in his book and giving Tyson all his attention – exactly the way he liked it.

"S'probably why I'm saying this – but I can even forgive you that," He sat up and was almost expecting the way Nick pulled him in for a kiss. Yes, he thought dazedly through the kiss, he could live here... so he'd have to be careful not to give himself any dimension-jumping injuries. He barely had time to finish the though before Nick pushed him backwards, presumably to get him onto his back, and, unprepared, Tyson flailed for a moment then cracked his head on the table on his way down.

His vision blurred and blacked out.

**

He opened his eyes seconds later and saw a white ceiling above him; he closed them again to hold back the sudden, surprising flood of bitter disappointment. Another world to figure out just before being jerked into yet another. What was the point? And dammit, he'd liked that last one. It was almost like being home; in this one, he probably wouldn't even have the security blanket of the rest of the band there to bolster him.

Tired beyond all belief, he shut his eyes and turned his head away.

"Wait – did he just move?"

That was a familiar voice, but he wasn't falling for this again.

"Well, his head's not in the same position anymore, so unless there's a really strong draft in here..." And that was definitely Chris, but he wasn't going to bother learning this universe only to fall over and lose it again. Nick hadn't spoken yet, so things were probably still fucked up beyond all belief here too. Best to stay here in bed and wait for injury to come to him and throw him somewhere else.

"Ty? Tyson, you awake?"

He shook his head before he'd even thought about it; he could never ignore Nicky anyway. "You're not real," he said flatly, his voice gummed with disuse.

"What?" A brief muttered conference before rubber squeaked on lino and someone grasped his hand. "Ty, Chris's gone to get the doctor, you'll be fine, OK?"

Tyson was already frowning when he opened his eyes. The entire room was white, he saw now, sterile and practical, except for the ugly red plastic chair Mike was sitting on. Mike himself looked tired and worried, but he smiled when he met Tyson's eyes.

"Doctor? What doctor?"

Mike tried to nod reassuringly, but a furrow had appeared on his forehead. He waved a hand at the room. "You're in hospital – don't you remember falling?"

"Falling?" Oh, banging his head. "Obviously not..." he said instead, rather than admit to that, and shut his eyes again. Another place, and he hadn't got a clue what was going on around him. What was he here, anyway? A banker? Another teacher? Mike was saying something, but he didn't bother listening, interrupting him with a brusque, "Mike, have you heard of a guy called Nick Wheeler?"

Mike's worried furrow became a fully-fledged frown, "OK – seriously, are things a bit scrambled up there? Because-"

"Just tell me!" To his shame, his voice broke over the words.

"Yes, of course I have, he's our guitarist... Ty, d'you know who I am? Who you are?"

"I know just fine who I am," he snapped, "But I don't know who you are this time around!"

"Ty, what- you _fell_, what do you mean 'this time around'? I-"

"Mr. Ritter, good to see you awake again," A tall, balding man smiled at him from the door, followed by Chris, "That was a nasty fall you took."

"Mmm," he shrugged, not bothered hearing the details. They were just going to change any minute now.

"Now, are you in any pain?"

Tyson considered it. His right knee was aching - odd, when that had happened a couple of universes ago - and his hands and stomach throbbed painfully. Still, this would all disappear in a couple of hours' time, so was there much point getting medicated for it?

Unsure, he hedged his answer. "What happened?" he asked.

The doctor gave him a piercing look. "You've got no memory of it at all?"

None that you would believe. "None," he said firmly.

"Ah." Evidently, behind those kindly eyes, a note was being made of that. "You fell down some stairs, Mr. Ritter - outside a concert venue. The coffee you were carrying burnt your hands and the skin of your stomach, and you further damaged your hands trying to break your fall. At the same time, you fractured your kneecap - you were lucky not to have broken anything else."

"Oh. Good," he murmured, absently polite, thinking it through. These were all injuries he'd suffered, one by one, in those - what, dreams?

"You've been unconscious for three days; we were starting to worry." The doctor went on, his expression warming even further, and Tyson's brief, irreverent thought was that this man was wasted outside of pediatrics. "Thankfully, there was sufficient evidence of brain activity for us not to worry about you slipping into a coma."

_Oh, I bet there was_. "So, that was some knock to the head, huh?"

"Yes, Mr. Ritter, it certainly was." Another smile, "And your black eye is the result of the bang to your head. Nothing too serious - you have a moderately serious concussion, but nothing too worrying, and we'll do another CAT scan to make sure nothing is out of place up there," That kind of flippancy should be banned in hospitals, Tyson thought muzzily, "And we strapped up your knee until you woke and we could do some basic tests on it, but it will should only need a cast for a few weeks."

That roused him, "A cast?" They were on tour, he couldn't be hobbling around in a cast; but he found that he was almost relieved to be worried by that thought. At least he was regaining a little of his certainty that this place was the real deal.

Mike met his eyes behind the doctor's back and smiled awkwardly, "It'll be fine." He promised, and Tyson had no choice but to believe him.

"Yes, a cast," the doctor nodded, "but you'll probably only need to wear it for three weeks or so before you can change to a support instead."

"So it's not too serious a fracture?" Tyson checked. He hadn't even known it was possible to fracture kneecaps.

"Well," The doctor said carefully, "The x-ray only showed up a minor fracture - hence no need for surgery - but we do have to run a couple of tests before we can be absolutely sure. Is it giving you a great deal of pain?"

Tyson considered it, then shrugged. "Some, but I'll live."

The doctor nodded, evidently making another mental note, and glanced at Mike and Chris. "Would you prefer your - friends to leave, or-"

"No! Thank you." He said quickly, "They. I mean. Yeah."

"Alright then," the man's voice was soothing, and Tyson winced. He didn't want to be coddled like a frightened child, but it seemed like he had no other choice as long as he had a doctor who'd just escaped from pediatrics. "The test is very simple - I need you to raise your leg, held completely straight, off the bed."

Tyson frowned. "Why?" he asked, and then realised it was probably best not to ask.

Thankfully the doctor kept his answer brief. "It will help us assess the level of damage done to your kneecap," he said simply, "If you can raise it while the leg straight, the connection between to two sections of the leg hasn't been impaired by the damage, and it's safe to simply set it in plaster rather than pinning the bone back together."

The test was painful, but not impossible, and although Tyson took a couple of deep breaths when it was over to ease the pain, he was at least spared surgery for it. He didn't want to consider the things he might see whilst under anaesthetic. The doctor told him they would schedule him for a CAT scan the next day and probably keep him in for a couple of nights to monitor him now that he was awake, and left him alone with Chris and Mike.

For a long moment, they stared at each other in silence, then Mike nodded jerkily, breaking the stillness of their little tableau.

"Nice of you to join us," Chris said, apparently speaking for both of them.

"Nice to be back," Tyson agreed, and hoped to hell that this actually was back. He couldn't tell whether the fact that he had all the injuries he'd dreamed for himself reassured him that this was real or creeped the hell out of him.

"Next time, watch where the hell you're putting your feet." Chris told him gruffly, "We've lost the tour now - you're lucky it was nearly over."

"I'll do a lot of modelling to make up." Tyson promised with the ghost of a grin, and Chris managed a chuckle.

"Yeah, because casts have always been so sexy." He retorted.

"I'm modelling clothes, not doing centrefolds," Tyson returned, "Once it's just a support, no one need even know it's there."

"You'd better hope so," Chris agreed, "Though, the things they put you in are so f*cking tight..."

Mike, markedly silent through this exchange, spoke up at this point, "Ty..." he said slowly, "You were really out of it when you woke up, is - everything OK?"

"Yeah! Yeah. I just had some - really weird dreams."

"Only you could trip the light fantastic when you're unconscious," Chris snarked, almost gently.

"'Trip the light fantastic'?"

"Don't think you can mock me just because you're in a hospital bed, Ritter." Chris warned, but Mike didn't look convinced.

"But you're sure you're OK now?" he asked, not in the slightest bit sidetracked by their by-play.

Tyson took a long moment to consider the question, and nodded slowly. "I think so. Nick's around, right?"

Mike glanced at Chris. "Yeah...?"

Chris met Mike's eyes for a moment then nodded at Tyson. "He was here all night, he was pretty tired, Ty. I'll go wake him, tell him the - ah - good news."

Tyson nodded, and Mike smiled - a long way from his usual grin, but a close enough approximation that Ty's own worry let up a little. There was still a wary, worried look in Mike's eyes though, giving the lie to his smile, and if possible Tyson wanted to get rid of it completely. Awkwardly he cleared his throat as the door shut behind Chris, and tried,

"So - what'd I do?" Mike gave him a questioning look. "How'd I fall?" He elaborated.

A flicker of amusement actually followed his question, "Trying to walk and talk at the same time." Mike said, with a more untroubled grin than Tyson had seen so far.

If he hadn't known it would hurt like hell, Tyson would have buried his head in his hands. "Oh god."

"Yeah," Mike agreed, his smile strengthening.

"I just don't understand how I hurt myself so badly." He said, searching his memory for any glimpses at what had happened. There were none; and he could have kicked himself when he saw Mike's smile disappear. "I mean - I just fell down some stairs-"

"You fell down a fucking huge flight of stone steps," Mike corrected, "Seriously, dude, it was huge, you fell down about thirty steps. Like the doctor said, you're unbelievably lucky you didn't do any more damage like breaking an arm or a leg. Said you were lucky not to have shattered your kneecap so badly they had to remove it." He caught Tyson's revolted look and nodded, "Oh yeah."

"They can do that?"

"Well, they were talking about it doing it." Mike shrugged. "Just be glad you didn't hurt yourself worse." His expression was tense and unhappy, "I was the only one there," a tiny pause, "I thought you were dead. You were just... lying there. You looked dead."

Tyson winced at that. "And I just - lost my footing?" Mike nodded. "Shit."

"I didn't see what did it," Mike said honestly, "As far as I know, you were just talking to the fans and the next second you were going down the stairs. Probably doing something stupid for the fans again."

"There were fans there?" Tyson groaned, and Nick chuckled.

"Oh yeah. Your fall is all over YouTube."

"OK, well, that sucks."

"I dunno, at least someone's getting a laugh out of it," Mike's voice was dry, and he still looked miserable, so Tyson changed the subject, unwilling to push on with a subject that so obviously made his friend uncomfortable. "So, anything interesting been happening while I was out of it?"

Mike shrugged. "If it has, we haven't noticed it. We've all spent our time with you."

Tyson flushed and went to speak, but the door opened before he could get anything out. Mike turned, looking almost relieved at the distraction, and Tyson was so glad to see Nick he didn't try and bring the conversation back to him and Mike.

Nick grinned widely, "Good to see you awake, dude."

"Yeah," his heart gave one wild thump and he grinned back, unable to stop it even if he had wanted to, "S'pretty good to be awake again."

"Away from the 'really weird dreams'?" Mike asked, attempting a grin, and Tyson nodded, rather shamefacedly. Now that this world seemed so real, his reaction on waking up just seemed embarrassing.

Nick raised an eyebrow while Chris headed out to get two more chairs, green plastic to the red plastic one Mike was sitting on. "Really weird dreams?"

Shrugging wasn't easy whilst lying down, but Tyson had a good go at it anyway. "Yeah. Pretty odd."

Nick took one of the chairs from Chris and shrugged himself as he sat down. "It's you, Ty. It'd be weirder if you had normal dreams."

"If we keep talking about Ritter's dreams, I'm leaving," Chris warned, sinking his own credibility by settling into his chair. "You had some odd dreams, end of."

"But I think they mean something," Tyson said, opening his eyes very wide, careful not to look at Nick. There was no way he could explain that his subconscious had nearly had him falling in love with his best friend, and he wasn't even going to try.

"I doubt it." Nick said dryly. "Your subconscious isn't deep enough for that."

"You don't love me," he accused plaintively, then flinched a little at his own words. He knew all too well what a Nick who didn't love him looked like, and the memories - dreams or otherwise - were too raw to joke with just yet. "Sorry."

Nick patted his hand very gently. "Nope, not at all," he agreed, actions belying his words.

Tyson swallowed, and changed the subject quickly, pretending not to notice that Nicky left his hand on Tyson's, the equivalent of holding it whilst it was so sore. "So, YouTube, huh?" he said awkwardly, and Chris laughed.

"Think of it as free publicity." he suggested.

"Looking stupid for the good of the band," Tyson pretended to consider it, buying himself a little time. Even knowing all the other 'universes' had been tricks of his subconscious, it was difficult to ignore just how good it felt to be back here again, even with a fractured kneecap and hands which felt as though he'd rubbed all the skin off them with sandpaper. "Yeah, that sounds familiar."

Chris patted his good knee. "We all have to make sacrifices sometimes."

"Next time, you can do the looking stupid for the good of the band."

"No, I couldn't," Chris said triumphantly, "I'm the one hidden behind the drum kit. You're the one committing public indecency with a microphone stand and eye-fucking the crowd. No one wants to see me looking stupid. Unless it's, y'know. In lederhosen or something."

Tyson made a mental note of that for future use, but let it pass for the moment. "Then I nominate Nicky for the next one." He said quickly, drawing him into the conversation.

"I let you commit public indecency with me when the microphone stand gets boring," Nick said quickly, with a grin, "What more do you want me to do?"

"A photoshoot," Tyson muttered, rebelliously.

"So long as none of us try falling down stairs for free publicity again." Mike said, and Tyson could have kicked himself for losing the easiness by being flippant.

Nick jumped in, saying quickly, "You should see some of the comments on the YouTube video."

"You've been watching it?"

Chris chuckled, "Dude, he posted it." He joked, and Tyson grinned back, watching Mike out of the corner of his eye. He smiled at the joke, and seemed a little more on-balance now, which couldn't fail to be a good thing.

Chris, also watching him, stood abruptly. "Hey, Mike, fancy a coffee? We could go and get some good stuff, not the crap from the vending machine; give the lovebirds some time to catch up."

It wasn't subtle, but it worked; Mike stood and stretched, giving Tyson a rather apologetic smile. "Mmm, Starbucks. I love drinking corporate profit."

Tyson grinned back. "Save some for me?"

"You're not mixing coffee and painkillers," Nick vetoed, "you'd explode."

"I've told you that you shouldn't believe everything they told you in high school." Tyson returned, and whilst they were bickering - god, it felt good to just waste time with Nicky again, no worrying and no uncertainty - Chris and Mike slipped out. It was only when they realised they were alone that they stopped talking.

Finally Nick broke the silence. "Weird dreams?"

This time, Tyson didn't brush it off with a grin. He shut his eyes for a moment, and nodded, images flickering over his eyelids. "Yeah."

"OK, this is a one-time offer only, but - wanna share?" Tyson nodded mutely, and Nick's tone gentled a little. "I'll even promise not to mock you too much."

He managed a strangled laugh. "Oh, good - cos that was really what was worrying me."

"Thought it might be." Nick agreed easily. "So, c'mon, spill. Weird dreams."

"They were just kind of," he paused, feeling stupid and awkward, like a child telling their parents their nightmares so he could sleep in their bed tonight. And wasn't that a disturbing thought? "Y'know. Might-have-beens."

"Can't have been much fun." Nick said noncommittally.

"You're wasted as a rockstar, y'know that?" Tyson managed a very weak smile. "Shoulda been a shrink."

"Lucky for you I'm not." Nick smiled back, "Or I'd be charging for this. Stop trying to get out of it. What dreams?"

But looking at Nick - everything around him so solid and real, and his life just how he had remembered it - the horrible, hazy feeling of being trapped in those dreams was starting to fade, and the things that had happened were starting to go with it. "They weren't fun," he agreed slowly. "I just. I can't remember much. It was so clear when I - woke up."

Nick patted the back of his bandaged hand again, gentle and careful, and that careful pat triggered part of a half remembered section of his nightmare-sequence, "We were in New York," he said, his voice sounding dreamy and disconnected even to him, "We never made it." Nick swallowed, "I was working at Starbucks, and someone spilt coffee on me." That broke the dream, sending images of things that had never happened skittering across his mind, "And before that, you'd - you never left college," one of his fingers twitched and the spasm set his palm alight with pain, "And you made it big with the band, but without me..."

"Anything else?" he asked carefully, and Tyson nodded.

"I was a fuckin' teacher, Nicky," he said, not sure whether that made him want to laugh or whether that whole situation made him want to cry, "Can you imagine me teaching kids? I mean, actually teaching them? Jesus." Slowly, without moving any of his fingers, he moved his hand a little, making rather unwilling eye contact with Nick, the only way he had of squeezing back. "And we'd had some kind of huge row about it. There was one other where I'd made it with the band without you and we'd had another huge fight over that. You gave me the black eye."

"Your subconscious is a strange, strange place, Ty." Nick was evidently keeping his voice deliberately light; his eyes were dark and worried.

"Yeah. One, we hadn't left Stillwater," he went on relentlessly, unable to stop. It was - cathartic, getting rid of all this. "And I'd given up bass - I was selling used cars, Jesus - and you were teaching guitar to kids."

"But we weren't fighting in that one?"

"We only fought in two of them." He told him seriously.

But that didn't seem to reassure him; horror was lurking in the shadows of his eyes. "How many of these things did you have?"

"F-" he cut himself off. He didn't know if he could bring himself to share that last one with Nick. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to explain how much of a relief it had been, after all that anger between them, to know that he was still loved by his friend, to be able to talk to him and show that he loved him - how his subconscious had almost had in falling in love with him. Jesus. "Five." He said, slow and deliberate, and Nick nodded.

"The fifth?"

"Pretty much the same as here," he nodded, and forced a grin. "'Cept you and me were... Y'know." Passing this off as a joke was the way to go, he thought. "Together."

Nick laughed, but it sounded tinny even to Tyson. "Like I said, your subconscious is f*cking weird, Ty."

He managed to keep his grin fixed, unwavering. "Yeah. But it was. Y'know. Kind of a relief that you still liked me."

Nick squeezed his wrist for a moment, the equivalent of squeezing his hand at the moment. "I've let you hang around me this long, I suppose I can stand you for a little longer."

Tyson nodded, shutting his eyes and swallowing down a ridiculous feeling of disappointment - and really, what had he expected, for Nick to confess his long-hidden undying love for him? - and was about to open his mouth to speak when he felt Nick's lips against his own. He opened his eyes as the kiss ended and watched, dazed, as Nick settled himself back in his uncomfortable chair.

"OK...?"

"We'll talk about this later," Nick promised, "when it doesn't feel quite so much like necrophilia."

Tyson knew he was grinning like a fool, but he didn't care. "It's never necrophilia if you're as hot as me!" he crowed, and Nick laughed.

"Repeat that sentence and identify the flaw," he ordered, and Tyson just grinned at him.

It was good to be back.

**


End file.
